


Eyes That Vainly Crave The Light

by keire_ke, midgardianleviosa



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Birds, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Fanart, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Language, Steve Rogers Needs To Punch Something, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 10:08:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11146263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keire_ke/pseuds/keire_ke, https://archiveofourown.org/users/midgardianleviosa/pseuds/midgardianleviosa
Summary: Bucky's been taken out of cryo for a period of recovery and to determine if he can shake loose HYDRA's influence once and for all. Steve, still in hiding after the events of Civil War, gets pictures of Bucky from T'Challa every so often.





	Eyes That Vainly Crave The Light

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to keire_ke, the artist of the wonderful works this was based on! Find them at:  
> http://keire-ke.tumblr.com/search/eyes+that+vainly+crave
> 
> Written for the 2017 Captain America Reverse Big Bang on Tumblr.

_“Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,_

_Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,_

_Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)_

_Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,_

_Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,_

_Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,_

_The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?_

_Answer._

_That you are here—that life exists and identity,_

_That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.”_

\- "O Me! O Life!", Walt Whitman

 

* * *

 First there is the searing ache of cold, then the burn of heat slowly returning.

Then there is his body, again, somehow.

He has eyes – he opens them and then shuts them again immediately – it _hurts_.

 Then he has a mind again, which immediately clamps down on his body, every muscle of his tensing in anticipation of what is to come – he can’t breathe, he can’t do this, not again, not again, not again –

Then the hissing of pneumatics and his fists clench – he knows there’s no use fighting but he can’t help himself and he repeats in his head _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorryI’msorryI’msorry_ as the light pierces his closed eyelids and he raises his left hand – _I’m sorry I’m sorry forgive me don’t make me don’t please no please I’m sorry_ – but he can’t touch anything, can’t move his hand – restraints are being removed from his torso – _no no nonononono_ – and he tries to swing with his left hand but overcompensates, topples, and falls – exclamations fill the air, startled, fearful, in some language he doesn’t know – not Russian, not French or German or Arabic or Chinese – _I can’t understand I’m sorry please don’t stop stop no no nononono_ – and he tries to brace himself as he falls but he’s balanced wrong, too light on one side, and the hard cold floor embraces his body as his head hits the floor with a _thunk_ and everything returns to blissful black.

* * *

 His eyes shoot open and he scrambles to a sitting position. He’s in a white bed. The whole room is white and clean, a smell of disinfectant in the air. _Hospital._

A machine lifts itself up beside him, long and spindly; he recoils, then lunges out to strangle it, his flesh hand closing around it. The machine scans his retinas anyway and produces a very long needle.

**Patient conscious, disorientated,** it announces. **Recommend general sedative.**

He grips it tighter – he is _not_ going to be sedated.

Another machine lifts itself up. **Patient is Level Eight Do Not Engage. Assistance on its way.**

The first machine withdraws its syringe almost sadly – he releases it cautiously and the machines fold back down into the floor.

His hand is gone.

He looks at what remains of the metal arm, still seared into his shoulder, and finally remembers where he is.

_Wakanda._

That thought is shortly followed by _Steve._

That thought is shortly followed by _RUN_ as his entire body tenses and T’Challa walks into the room.

T’Challa holds his hands up, showing no weapons (though that does not particularly reassure him).

“Do you remember what happened?” he asks, calmly.

Bucky nods.

“The doctors said that you might be disoriented when you woke up. My apologies for the machines… and the bruise.”

Automatically, Bucky touches his temple, which is tender from where he hit it on the floor.

“It’s fine,” he says, then coughs. His throat is dry with disuse. “Did I…”

T’Challa shakes his head. “No, but you did startle quite a few people.”

There’s a pause, uncomfortable, as Bucky stares T’Challa down.

“Why did you wake me up?”

“This cryogenic technology is new. The doctors are not sure if it has been working correctly, if there have been negative effects on your body… they decided to awaken you to make sure.”

“So they haven’t found a way to fix me.”

T’Challa shrugs slightly. “We will see.”

Bucky swallows. “And… my arm…”

T’Challa says, “There we can help you a bit more, my friend.”

* * *

 Bucky swings his legs off the side of the bed, the tile cold against the soles of his feet.

_Freezing, shaking, burning, gasping – dragged across cement, cold sweat on his face, cold metal wrapping around him – and then the pain, everywhere, hard rubber in his mouth – he screams and screams and then there is only a blankness…_

_And then the words come and he knows who he is._

_He is ready to comply._

Bucky passes his hand through his hair, which is falling into his eyes. Overall, this has been one of his better awakenings.

He remembers the deep-concealed worry on Steve’s face when Bucky told him that he was resolute in his decision – worry concealed with one of his little half-smiles, like he thought Bucky couldn’t read him after all this time…

He remembers Steve standing in front of the cryo chamber – his last sight before he closed his eyes.

The thing about cryo-sleep was that once you were in it you were at peace. Going under was quicker than falling asleep, but waking up… not so much. But in cryo-sleep there was only blackness and deep, deep rest.

Rest meant he didn’t have to think about things. Things like _what if I’m like this forever_ and _what if I never see him again_ and _what if someone finds me, takes me away, locks me up until they need me to kill?_

Things he’d rather not think about.

He can’t.

* * *

  Steve’s phone beeps.

He checks the screen and stands up to excuse himself; Wanda looks concerned, Sam raises an eyebrow knowingly, and Clint doesn’t even look up.

“Who is it?” he asks through a mouthful of cereal.

“T’Challa,” Steve says, then, “Excuse me.”

This building they were in was probably once a farmhouse, but had fallen into disrepair. It was in stark contrast to what the four of them were used to (Scott had returned to California) but the Avengers Facility in New York wasn’t an option for them anymore.

Instead, they were crammed into this ramshackle building in rural Montana, and although they were fixing it up, slowly making it more habitable, Steve is getting antsy, the kind of restlessness that makes him want to punch someone and hard.

He leans on the porch railing and enters the passcode that he and T’Challa had agreed upon, his heart pounding… though it kills him to admit it, no news is good news… 

T’Challa’s message pops up. **Woke him up for standard checkup. Knocked himself out but is doing fine now.**

And then a picture – a image from a camera planted in a hospital room. Bucky’s lying on the bed, looking exactly the same as when Steve left five months ago.

He’s looking directly at the camera and flipping it off with his remaining hand; Steve stifles a grin.

**Thanks, T’Challa,** he types back. **It means a lot.**

He presses send, sees that the message has been received – but there’s no response so he turns off his phone and stares out at the horizon for a minute.

Bucky’s awake.

He tamps down the little happy flutter in his stomach. They’ll check Bucky out, and unless T’Challa’s best doctors are three times faster with their anti-brainwashing research than he thought, Bucky’ll go back under again soon.

He sighs, and returns to the kitchen.

“So?” Sam asks.

“They woke up Bucky for a checkup,” he says. “It’s nothing.”

Sam looks unconvinced but keeps his mouth shut.

* * *

 A nurse comes in the next morning at what he estimates is about seven AM (he’s been up since four.)

She smiles at him but he notices the panic button on her belt (cleverly disguised as part of the buckle) and swallows.

She takes his blood pressure and then his temperature. “I am terribly sorry about the machines,” she says. “They were put there as a precaution, but I find that they are always a little sharp.”

“Nice pun,” he says before he can help himself – she smiles a little.

“It will take a few months to evaluate your physical and mental conditions,” she tells him as she draws a vial of his blood. “You will attend therapy sessions with our best psychologist, and we will make you a new arm… and after all that, we will be able to see if you will need to go back into cryo.”

“Thanks,” he says when she’s done; she nods and leaves the room quietly.

* * *

 It’s late at night, and he can’t sleep. He’s too busy thinking, standing in the small bathroom that adjoins his hospital room.

He knows he won’t be fixed until they can get the words out of his head. And for the life of him he can’t figure out how they’ll do it.

He stares at himself in the mirror. He almost has a full beard now… almost looks like a different person, can almost convince himself that he’s fixed…

He wants to try, wants to know… but he’s terrified. The word is on the tip of his tongue… he opens his mouth, licks his lips, and whispers, “Жел…” but he can’t do it, he can’t say it, he tries again, “Желан…” but it’s no use, his hand is shaking and he bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood.

_I’m sorry, Steve._

* * *

 His therapist is a woman with kind eyes.

She wants him to open up.

He doesn’t want to. There’s ninety years of trauma that he’d rather not recall.

But she’s gentle with him and he knows in his heart that she’s right, so he starts with little things. What he did that morning. What his favorite foods were back in the forties. What Steve’s twelfth birthday party was like.

And slowly, slowly, he starts to talk about the Soldier.

* * *

 Today’s the day that he’ll get his new arm.

Bucky shaves, and combs his hair. He figures that it’s best not to scare the prosthetics technicians by looking like he’s stepped out of the gutters.

The man who greets him and ushers him into the sterile room is very friendly, even as he straps Bucky into a set of restraints that HYDRA would have envied.

He tries not to tense up.

After a few minutes, a tall woman walks into the room and smiles at him – the doctor, he can tell, because of her white lab coat. She’s carrying a silver case that looks heavy, yet she doesn’t struggle with it. She introduces herself and sits down across from him.

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes. We are going to try to attach a new prosthetic today,” she says. “The restraints are for your safety – nerves are tricky business, and we do not want to have any accidents!”

“No, ma’am,” he says and she smiles a little more widely.

She asks him for permission before she takes the neoprene cap off his shoulder and before she begins to poke at the metal bits that are all that’s left of his old arm.

He decides that he likes her.

She sits there for a while, manipulating little bits of metal and making little noises to herself. The man who strapped him in keeps leaning in and making notes on a pad of paper.

Eventually she rolls back in front of him and says, “This is going to be harder than I had hoped. If it had been a clean break, it would have been easier to sync your nerves back. But… it seems it got a little messy.”

He tips his head back and closes his eyes briefly. “You have no idea.”

She chuckles a bit. “And since we cannot remove the rest of the metal from your shoulder without serious nerve and structural damage, we are going to have to build the prosthetic onto you.”

She heaves out the silver case and opens it up, folding out several trays full of tools and materials.

“Your old arm was vibranium?” she asks, and Bucky nods. “Good, you will be used to the weight. Is there anything in particular that you want, any special features?”

Bucky thinks first of the red star and bitterness fills his mouth. But he swallows it away and asks softly, “Can I be able to feel with it?”

“Of course,” she says. “Anything else?”

He shakes his head. “Not particularly.”

She smiles widely. “Wonderful.”

It’s long, slow work, but after hours and hours his new arm is done.

The nurse loosens the restraints; Bucky flexes his fingers experimentally, making a fist, then touching his thumb to each of his four fingers. _Good as new._

He thanks them both profusely and shrugs into his jacket; they smile and escort him out.

He pulls his baseball cap low over his eyes and stuffs his new hand into his pocket, trying to keep a low profile.

Then he hears the hissing. And then the squawking.

The noise is coming from an alley a few feet away – he cautiously peers around the corner.

It’s a cat, lean and feral, tussling with a bird less than a quarter of its size. Feathers are flying everywhere.

“Hey!” Bucky shouts, approaching the cat, which bares its teeth at him. “Pick on something your own size.”

The cat snarls and attempts to leap at him, but his reflexes are too quick – he seizes the cat with his metal hand and shoos it aside.

The cat looks like it’s deciding whether he’s worth it; deciding not, it hisses again and begins to slink away – then a rustling of feathers and another loud SQUAWK and the bird launches itself at the cat.

Bucky pulls the bird off the cat and holds it tightly – it protests and pecks at his metal arm (Bucky regrets asking for feeling in it now). Bucky stares at the cat, which stares back balefully, then ambles away.

Bucky turns back to the bird in his arms. “You just don’t know when to quit, huh?”

The bird cocks its head for a second, then pecks at his arm again. Wincing, Bucky releases it, but it doesn’t fly away – instead, it scrambles up his shoulder and perches on his head.

Bucky sighs. “Go away.”

The bird squawks and pecks his earlobe.

“I don’t have any food.”

The bird starts nibbling at the brim of his baseball cap.

Bucky sighs deeply.

* * *

  The bird has refused to leave Bucky’s head, which led to quite a few stares as he made his way back to the safehouse that T’Challa had acquired for him - exactly what he _didn’t_ need.

He pauses in front of the door. “I really don’t think I should take you inside.”

He reaches up and grabs the bird tightly – it protests loudly – and detaches it from his head.

He shoulders open the door, steps through it, and quickly releases the bird and closes the door.

There’s a loud SQUAWK and a _thunk_ – Bucky peers through the window to see that the bird has flown headfirst into the door.

Dazed, it totters around for a little, then flies away.

Bucky shakes his head, and toes off his shoes. He pulls off his baseball cap (which has little claw holes in it now) and hangs it on a hook, then pads through the hallway to the kitchen.

He pours himself a glass of orange juice.

* * *

 He stands in the shower, hot water pouring down his spine – such a little luxury, but one that makes him eternally thankful – and presses his head against the wall.

He knows that he needs to go back under as soon as possible – maybe the therapist’s working, but how will he know until someone tries to wake the Soldier back up? – but the more he stays, wanders the streets of Wakanda, the more he eases into little routines, the more he wants to never see a cryo tube again.

But there’s a bitter taste in his mouth as he reminds himself the little life he had built in Romania and how quickly that all came crashing down.

He switches the shower to cold and lets it pour down on him without flinching.

He doesn’t deserve the warmth.

* * *

 Steve is sanding boards to replace the sagging ones that currently make up the front steps; next to him, Wanda is painting them gray. Clint and Sam are cutting the rest of the boards out in the back.

He likes Wanda. She doesn’t feel the need to fill up a silent space with words; she’s content to stand next to him as he quietly sands and she quietly paints.

Every so often, though, she’ll ask him a question, or make a little comment – he’ll respond and then they’ll fall back into silence.

“You miss him,” she says, and he stops sanding for a second, then starts again.

“Yes,” he replies, because what else is there to say? “He was like my brother,” he says, then winces internally, because to sum up all his tangled feelings for Bucky like that is not the way he wants to do it, but it’s too late.

Wanda asks, her eyes fixed on her paintbrush, asks, “What did you do when… you thought he had…”

“Died?” Steve asks, and she doesn’t look at him – he feels a pang in his heart because he knows whom she’s thinking of. He responds, “Well, I tried to get drunk, but I… can’t, exactly, so I mostly… I don’t know. I don’t think I ever came to terms with it, not before going in the ice, but I gave up, I guess, after I woke up, tried to just… adjust, to everything, to a world without everyone I knew, not just… not just Bucky.”

He sighed deeply. “And then there was the whole mess with SHIELD, and when I knew it was him… I just wanted him back.”

He smiled sadly. “That didn’t really turn out so well either.”

Wanda didn’t say anything.

“Look, Wanda… I’m here if you want to talk, but… Sam’s better at this sort of stuff than me, he – doesn’t internalize himself as much… but I can always listen.”

“Thanks,” she said, and then they went back to their work, silently.

* * *

 Bucky wakes up at 5:00 AM on the dot and goes through his morning routine: stretches while the coffee pot hums, pushups as the toast darkens, breakfast, newspaper, brush teeth, comb hair.

He decides to go outside for some air and a walk.

He locks the front door behind him and is immediately engulfed by feathers.

Once the feathers subside, there is a familiar weight on his head and a loud SQUAWK in his ear.

He sighs. “Nice to see you again, too.”

He tries to compromise with the bird as he walks, offering it his shoulder instead. The bird pecks at it doubtfully, (making a slight clanging noise) and refuses to hop down. Bucky sighs again and resigns himself to more talon holes in his baseball cap.

* * *

 After the bird ambushes him six days in a row he decides it needs a name. But he can’t think of one, hard as he tries – nothing seems right.

* * *

 “How many languages do you speak, Bucky?” his therapist asks.

“A lot. At least five.”

“When did you learn them?”

He frowns a little, trying to remember. “Over time. Whenever I needed to, as quickly as I could.”

 “Why?”

 He shrugs. “It made everything easier. Scouting, communication…”

 She taps her pen twice on the notepad in front of her. “But you associate Russian with the Winter Solider the most.”

 He nods.

"Why?"

He shifts a little in his seat. “When I was in Siberia, all my orders were in Russia. And – they developed… the trigger words there, and that – “

He stops talking.

“What was it like?” she asks softly.

He stands. “I’m sorry, I – “ His throat tightens and he clenches his metal hand instinctively.

She nods. “It’s all right.”

* * *

 She wants him to think about the words.

He didn’t _tell_ her what they were, obviously, and she didn’t ask, but when she learned that he remembered what they were she told him that “reclaiming the words will be an important step in reducing their hold on you,” whatever that meant.

She also wants him to practice his Russian.

The bird is perched on his shoulder after dive-bombing him as he left the therapist’s office. It’s still pretty small, but it seems like it’s grown since last week.

“Soon you won’t be such a _ptichka_ , huh?” he says to it. “Not such a little bird.”

It squawks and nibbles at his earlobe.

He whispers to it in Russian on his way home.

* * *

 Steve read an article once about a scientist who trained dogs to salivate at the sound of a bell. He thinks wryly that T’Challa has done the same thing to him.

He’d practically leapt from his desk at the sound of the text alert and has been looking at the latest picture T’Challa had sent ever since.

It's a little blurry, but through an open window he can just make out Bucky, a mug lifted to his lips.

He touches his fingertips to Bucky’s face.

Maybe soon he could come home.

But he doesn’t dare to hope for it out loud.

* * *

 Bucky stares at a blank page of his notebook.

He writes _longing_ , carefully, in English.

He taps his pen against his chin absentmindedly.

What does he long for? It’s not the same as wishing, and there are plenty of things he’s wished for.

_To be fixed_ , he writes.

Next, _rusted._

He flexes his metal arm absentmindedly. Vibranium doesn’t rust. But he feels rusty, in a way – old, tired. He shouldn’t be used - for anything.

_Weary_ , he writes. _Unusable._ Then _needs care. No one has the right oil. I don’t even think there is any._

_Seventeen._

_Steve tried to enlist before he was even eighteen. That was the only thing he lied about, that time. He didn’t even think that they’d turn him down because of his health. And every time Steve went to enlist after that I prayed they’d turn him down. That way he’d be safe. And then that bastard had to go get himself superpowers and I can’t protect him now._

He sighs.

_Daybreak._

_We came back to the camp at dawn. I couldn’t stop looking at him, that dumb bright shield on his back. I wanted him to feel proud. I wanted people to know what he did. But after that he never belonged to me. He became too important for that. He was everyone’s._

_Furnace._

_It was so damn hot in the HYDRA camp. Maybe it was the serum. I couldn’t stop sweating, dreaming, hallucinating. I thought that’s what he was at first. A dream. But he was real._

_Nine._

_Steve got real sick on his ninth birthday. I heard his mom talking to the doctor and they thought he was going to die. I read him comic books. I don’t think he heard them._

_Benign._

_That was the whole damn point of this, wasn’t it? Wipe me out and let the Soldier in. Make me helpless. And the worst part is that I’m him. I keep trying to pretend we’re different. We’re not. We’re the same._

_Homecoming._

_I don’t have a home. Not anymore. The closest thing I have to home is Steve._

_One._

_If it was his life or mine, I’d kill myself. That’d be the only way._

_Freight car._

_He tried to grab me but I fell. I don’t let myself think about the what-ifs._

Bucky sighs, and puts down the notebook. That’s enough introspection for one night.

* * *

 Bucky is awakened a half-hour earlier than normal by a loud SQUAWK and a sharp peck on the back of his head.

His hand shoots out and grabs the bird: it protests loudly and he releases it reluctantly.

“How the _hell_ did you get in, _ptichka_?” he asks blearily.

The bird seems pleased and struts across his chest.

He groans and flops back down. “The open window, huh?”

The bird squawks again.

“Hooray.”

* * *

 It’s at one of his every-so-often visits with T’Challa that he hands Bucky his phone, says, “Be quick,” and leaves the room.

He looks down at the phone – it’s already calling someone.

His heart is suddenly pounding fast; he places the phone against his ear.

And then the line clicks through and a voice tinged with fear is asking, “T’Challa, what’s wrong?”

He inhales sharply and presses the phone more closely to his face.

“Is it Bucky? Is he okay?”

He’s frozen; he can’t speak.

Steve swears. “T’Challa, please!”

He clears his throat. “Steve… it’s me.”

Now it’s Steve’s turn to fall silent. Then he hears a shaky sigh, and then, quietly, “Buck.”

His chest goes tight. “Yeah,” he says.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m… getting better.”

Steve sighs again. “Can you… can you come home?”

_Home._

_Steve._

He clears his throat again. “I… I can’t. Not yet. Not until…”

“I understand,” Steve says softly.

“I will, though,” he says. “Soon. Or – or if you need me.”

Steve is silent for a second.

Then T’Challa is back in the room, looking at his watch, mouthing, _time’s up._

“I have to go,” he says, reluctantly.

“Okay,” Steve replies.

There’s a silence that stretches on and on…

“Steve?” Bucky asks.

“Still here, Buck.”

“Oh.”

T’Challa holds his hand out.

“Bye, Steve.”

“Bye, Buck,” Steve replies softly.

He hangs up and hands the phone to T’Challa.

* * *

 Four months have passed and Bucky has adjusted to life in Wakanda, to making his regular visits to the therapist, even to the dumb bird. He’s started learning Wakandan with the help of a few books from the local bookstore and his therapist, who’s caught wind of it and sometimes challenges him during their sessions by asking him questions in Wakandan.

Ptichka is fully grown, according to the information in the book “Avian Species of Wakanda” and is now too big to enter through the windows. Bucky made him a perch in his room, but he still wakes Bucky up much too early, in Bucky’s opinion. But it’s nice to have someone to talk to – T’Challa only stops by every other week or so.

But he’s still constantly on edge. His nightmares haven’t stopped – last night’s was a particularly vivid recollection of shooting Steve on the helicopter, followed by Bucky punching him until he was bruised and bleeding – and he still can’t bring himself to even say the words to himself in the mirror. The closest he’s gotten was saying “longing” and then “rusted” in French, but then he had to stop because he was trembling so much that the sink started shaking.

He takes his notebook everywhere. He jots down good memories, little to-do lists, and tries to sketch Ptichka on multiple occasions, but he’s not a very good artist.

He keeps a backpack under the floorboards and is always, _always_ ready to run.

* * *

  “The only way we’ll know if I’m fixed is if someone reads the words,” he tells his therapist.

“And you are afraid that they will work.”

“Yeah.”

“You still do not trust yourself.”

He sighs. “Of course not.”

She reviews her notes. “We are coming up on five months since you have come out of cryo-sleep. The doctors have determined that you are physically healthy enough to go back under, but I have not yet determined if you are mentally healthy enough to stay out.”

She sighs. “I do not _want_ to put you back under, Bucky.”

“You have to,” he says, his hands clenching into fists. “Every day that I’m awake is a day that someone could find me, turn me – I _have_ to go back in.”

“Do you want to?” she asks.

He swears. “Of _course_ not, but I don’t have a _choice_!”

She taps her pen. “Is there no one you trust?”

“With what?”

“The Soldier.”

Bucky is silent. “I can’t do that to him.”

She leans forward. “You _must._ Otherwise you will never know.”

* * *

 Steve’s phone beeps. He rolls over and picks it up from the nightstand.

His stomach drops as the blue light fills the dark room and he reads T’Challa’s message.

**You need to come.**

Another beep sounded and a series of plane tickets pop up – Helena to JFK, JFK to Wakanda.

He stumbles out of bed, pulling on his clothes and grabbing his backpack out of the small closet.

He calls T’Challa. The phone rings in his ear as he shoves clothes and a toothbrush into his backpack. A pleasant voice tells him, “The number you have reached is restricted. Please check your number and try again."

He tries three more times to no avail.

He swears, throws another shirt in his backpack, and hurries downstairs, where he writes a hasty note.

_Clint, Sam, Wanda –_

_Something’s wrong, and T’Challa needs me in Wakanda. I’m flying out this morning. (It’s three AM now.)_

_I’ll try to call once I’m there._

_Steve_

He closes the front door behind him, his mind racing. He can’t take the car, the rest of them will need it – he weighs the distance in his mind. Seventy-five miles to the Helena airport?

He can do seventy-five.

He texts T’Challa, **On my way.**

* * *

 Bucky awakens to a strange tight fluttering in his stomach.

Steve is finally coming.

He lies in bed, thinking, for a while, until Ptichka squawks.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, and gets up to make breakfast.

* * *

 A black car and an unsmiling chauffeur are there to pick him up forty-eight hours after he left Montana.

Steve is exhausted. He hadn’t been able to sleep on any of the flights, and T’Challa hadn’t texted him again.

He didn’t know what was going to happen. He’d run through dozens of different scenarios in his mind, each worse than the last.

After an hour or so of driving the car pulls up to a nondescript house.

“We are here,” the driver says, (his first words spoken on the entire ride) and Steve got out and thanks him, his heart suddenly pounding.

He knocks on the door.

Soft footsteps on the other side, and then it opens.

“Hi,” Bucky says. “Thanks for coming.”

All the air goes out of Steve’s lungs; he’s alive, he’s not injured, he’s smiling a little, and dear _god_ Steve’s heart hurts.

Bucky steps aside and Steve walks in.

As soon as the door closes Steve asks, “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

Bucky shrugs (he’s tense, Steve can tell, there _is_ something wrong) and says, “Yeah.”

There’s a loud SQUAWK from another room and Steve tenses; Bucky smiles a little more. “That’s just Ptichka. I saved him from an alley cat when he was little.”

“Really?” Steve asks, peering around the corner at the brightly plumed bird, who eyes him suspiciously.

“He started it,” Bucky said.

“You have a type.”

They stared at each other for a moment then broke out into grins.

“I missed you,” Steve admits. “Clint, Sam, Wanda and I are all living on this little run-down farm and… it gets a little tight after a while.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says softly. “I know.”

* * *

 Bucky makes Steve a cup of coffee. “But really,” Steve asks, “why am I here? T’Challa said I needed to come, but he didn’t say why – I thought you were hurt, or something – “

Bucky tenses. He knows exactly how Steve will react to this idea.

He keeps his back to Steve as he says slowly, “I’m gonna have to go back under soon. The doctors say I’m ready, and… no one can tell if the Soldier’s out of my head yet. There’s only one way to find out.”

“No.”

He turns around reluctantly. “Steve, I’m sorry, but – “

“I can’t do that to you, Buck.”

“You have to.”

There is silence in the room. Steve’s jaw is clenched and his eyes are steely.

Bucky knows that when Steve gets like this there’s practically nothing that can change his mind.

“It’s the only way,” he says.

“Bucky…”

“Steve, you’re the only one I trust to do this.”

Steve’s jaw softens a little.

“Please,” Bucky asks.

* * *

 “Here,” Bucky says, and hands Steve his notebook. On a fresh page he’s written the words and their pronunciation.

Steve shifts slightly, but takes the notebook, his eyes scanning it briefly.

Bucky continues. “If I… turn after you’re done, I’ll answer you in Russian.”

“Then what?” Steve asks. “Do I just knock you out and wait for you to come back around?”

“No. Just write down the word I circled at the end of the sheet.”

“What’s that do?”

“Takes the Soldier out of me.”

Steve’s eyes narrow. Bucky can tell he doesn’t believe him.

He’s right.

That word, мышьяк, arsenic, is the final command, meant only to be used if things go so badly wrong that the only option for HYDRA is to kill him.

The only time he’s ever heard it was when a spy infiltrated HYDRA and managed to figure out the word. The spy had apparently thought that sacrificing himself was the best option if it meant taking out the Winter Soldier.

His handler had almost immediately shouted the command for him to freeze, which, coming from his handler, was of higher priority than a command from another person.

But before he froze his hand was reaching for his gun… and he had known exactly what to do.

Steve would be upset. But he couldn’t take the chance that the Soldier could be woken up ever again.

He sits down in a chair in the middle of the living room. There’s a gun in the drawer immediately to his left. Steve won’t be fast enough. And he doesn’t know the counter-command.

He’ll be safe from Bucky forever, if the words work.

“You can start,” Bucky says, and clenches his jaw.

Steve hesitates, then says, “Bucky, I – “

“Go,” Bucky says, firmly. He’ll show Steve stubborn.

Steve’s eyes reach for his one last time, and he begins.

“Желание. ”

His pronunciation isn’t perfect, but it will do.

“Ржавый. ”

Bucky closes his eyes.

“Семнадцать. ”

_Every time Steve went to enlist after that I prayed they’d turn him down…_

“Рассвет. ”

_I wanted people to know what he did. But after that he never belonged to me…_

“Печь. ”

_I thought that’s what he was at first. A dream. But he was real…_

“Девять. ”

_They thought he was going to die…_

“Добросердечный. ”

_Wipe me out and let the Soldier in. Make me helpless…_

“Возвращение на родину. ”

_The closest thing I have to home is Steve…_

“Один. ”

_If it was his life or mine, I’d kill myself. That’d be the only way._

“Грузовой вагон. ”

* * *

 There’s only silence in the room. Steve starts to say Bucky’s name, but bites his tongue. He’s still sitting there, quietly. He’s not looking at Steve, just at the wall.

Steve holds the notebook tightly in his hands. He looks down at it for the next word.

“Солдат?” he asks.

His heart is racing. He’s terrified.

Bucky looks up, his eyes fixed on Steve’s.

Bucky smiles, a joy on his face that Steve hasn’t seen since before the war, and says, “I don’t think so, punk."


End file.
